


Halfway Human

by Avenging_is_My_Day_Job



Series: Halfway Human [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Amputation, Angst, Cyborg!Tony Stark, Gen, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avenging_is_My_Day_Job/pseuds/Avenging_is_My_Day_Job
Summary: The demonstration and the following months put a lot of things in perspective for him."I am Tony Stark's final creation."---The missile was too close when it landed, and Tony suffered far more serious injuries as a result.





	Halfway Human

**Author's Note:**

> If you hate this, don't worry, I hate it too. I'm terrible at writing through an existing storyline, but I wanted to set the scene and this was the best way for me to do it.

Something was missing.

Important.

Of _fucking_ course it was.

He remembered the demonstration, the scotch, the caravan... It was a good morning, how could he not? Between that and waking up in a cave, cold and paralyzed by waves of agonizing pain, everything after was fuzzy. He could close his eyes and hear gunfire and smell smoke, but _god_ if the pain in his head was anything to go by, he'd say there was a concussion holding back the rest.

The first time he woke up ( _???_ ) there were hands in his chest, moving things around and he could feel _things_ being pushed around and bone being cut to make room for whatever that person off to the side was thrusting in his direction. He blacked out again while it was being anchored to his sternum, and a voice whispered apologies that got lost in the haze of sedatives and lingering unconsciousness.

The second time, he tried to move, to pull away from whatever was cutting and tugging on the skin of his right arm but he couldn't lift his head, least of all the rest of his body. As his vision cleared he became distinctly aware of a firm pressure holding him down, around his head, arms, _and_ legs, and he strained to see his captors working in his peripheral vision, it was the same man that had been working on him before.

"The anesthetic is wearing off," the man said, softly, "My apologies. They did not allow me to give you more. It won't be long before they bring another dose."

 _Fuck_ , he couldn't move his head so he could see what this person is doing, but he can lay there and come to the disturbing conclusion that more of him had been cut away than he could immediately discern. There's no pain, no discomfort, just numbness and the overwhelming feeling that pieces are missing, and then he was being pulled under once more. He didn't have the presence of mind to struggle or fight back.

So he woke up again. There was no knowledge of how much time between each episode there was, only that it had to be a while because the pain had ebbed into a dull ache, and while he might have been awake and aware he was most definitely sedated. For the best, he assured himself, otherwise he'd pass out cold again and that was just embarrassing. 

_The great Tony Stark, scared witless at the sight of blood and gore? Pathetic. What would Howard think?_

As soon as he swallowed the nausea and pushed back the dizziness, he turned his head to his left. His mind was clearer now than it had been in days ( _???_ ), and yes, he was indeed in a cave. The walls and ceiling were a dark grey and speckled with jutting rocks, and the only light source was a small, flickering fire. He could see his own breath, but the glow of the fire promised warmth, something remotely comforting, so he tried pulling himself up, but his right arm wouldn't comply. A thin blanket was draped over him, tangled around his body, and he tried kicking it away. With his left hand, he pushed off the cot, grappling with the cup of water that had been set out for him - only for it to tumble to the dirt floor along with every refreshing drop of water contained within - then tried once more to get up. This time, it was a wire that held him back. It snaked from underneath the bandages on his chest, over to a car battery that was placed close by.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man said. The one who had operated on him.

_In these conditions?_

Tony started pulling away the bandages, staring down at the contraption in his sternum with uninhibited horror. This was the thing they put in his chest, but why? He touched it, then the wires that connected it to the battery. Then his right arm. It still wasn't cooperating. Uncharacteristically weak, which didn't make sense because despite his status, he worked with his hands. He examined the limb, wrapped in stained bandages that would have been switched for clean ones under any other circumstance, before his gaze wandered down to his hand. Encased completely in gauze that was stiff with dried blood. 

It only got worse. He yanked the blanket away, choking back a pained sound. Most of his left leg was completely gone, and everything from his right knee down was gone as well. What was left of each had been bandaged as well, so he was spared from seeing the carnage itself.

"What the hell did you do to me?" he demanded, harshly, staring down the other. His voice sounded like he'd eaten glass shards but at least the words were clear.

"Saved your life," came the simple, quiet reply. "I removed as much shrapnel as I could, but there's a lot left."

"And the rest of me?" _Fuck._

"You were too close to the missile. I'm sorry... I could not do more. And they insisted I leave your hand. That you would need it."

He was afraid to look under the bandages. He steeled himself, taking a deep breath and pointedly keeping his eyes fixed on the man. "What is this?" he asked, holding the wire to emphasize his point.

"Electromagnet. It's keeping the shrapnel from entering your heart. I've seen many wounds like that in my village. We call them the walking dead, because it takes about a week for the shrapnel to reach the vital organs."

"It doesn't matter if I'm going to die of infection anyway. I'm not exactly useful with only one functional limb," his hand fell to his side.

"They will find use of you," he said, solemnly. "I am a doctor. I will not allow you to die."

Tony made a strangled sound, akin to a laugh. Anxiety or just the harsh realization of his current, inconceivable, inescapable situation. "Maybe you should."

He didn't just design things and make money, he built things. He needed his hands. These things don't happen to _him_.

A beat passed, and the doctor was at his side with a roll of guaze that was nearly gone. "My name is Yinsen," he said, and Tony was grateful to finally be able to put a name to a face, so he was no longer _the man_ or more recently _the doctor_. 

"Tony..."

"Stark, I know." Of course. The bandages on his arm were being unwrapped and pulled away, and he looked to the side while the mangled flesh was gently cleaned before being covered again. He could feel how much of his hand was left, but that didn't mean he wanted to look at it.

_This isn't just bad dream._

Tony startled and Yinsen flinched when someone started shouting at them from the other side of the door. It took him a moment to focus, but Tony could hear their names, before the door was shoved open and a group of armed men flooded the room. Yinsen was on his feet in seconds.

He was still trying to collect himself when one of the men grabbed him and forced him around to face the leader of the group, holding him up when he was barely capable. 

"He says," Yinsen started, between the leader's words, "Welcome, Tony Stark, the most famous mass murderer in the history of America. He wants you to build the missile you demonstrated. The Jericho missile."

They stared at him, waiting. 

He'd be dead soon anyway, right?

"I refuse."

* * *

Kneeling in the scorching sand two months later, one hand in the air signalling the army helicopter, Tony thought about waking up in the cave. About the destruction he caused, the lives lost because of him... The soldiers in the fun-vee, _Yinsen_... If he survived any longer, he had to do something about those weapons. About the blood on his hands. Hand. 

The other one was gone, and what was left of the limb was necrotic. He had wrapped a torn shirt around it, but it did little more than cover the sight of it. 

Rhodey was talking to him, holding him up, but the words were lost on him. He tried to stand, but the metal framework he'd salvaged to create crude prosthetics were warped and started falling apart. Someone caught him, and there was a _lot_ of yelling, and he was carried to the chopper while the adrenaline that had fueled his escape and trek across the dunes finally burned away and he was left exhausted in its wake.

They brought him to the nearest base so a doctor could assess his injuries and confirm what he already knew. He should have died, if not in the explosion, then a few days later when the shrapnel finally pierced his heart. If the necrotic tissue wasn't removed soon, then _that_ would kill him, but the base wasn't equipped for that. Not on that scale, anyway. At least he didn't think it was.

"Remind me to send some better medical equipment your way," he said to Rhodey, when he finally saw him again. 

"You should have let them operate," Rhodey said, and Tony couldn't tell if he was scared, angry, or disappointed. That seemed to be the mixture of typical reactions that the man had to his shenanigans.

"I want to go home," he said, and cut his friend off before the lecture, "I already found someone to do the surgery. Really, a pioneer in her field. Wouldn't trust anyone else to do it."

"Is that so? I don't often see you impressed by other people."

"Ouch, my heart. Seriously, if I'm going to lose an arm, it's going to be done by someone who know's what they're doing."

The operation was scheduled for the day he got back to the states, which placated Rhodey, but it didn't change his mind about when it should have happened. That night, Tony couldn't sleep, so he stayed up reading this doctor's research papers. Some of it was out there, specialized containment units capable of creating organic tissue? That was the future. That's what the world needed. He knew better than to hope she could save what was left of him, because that tech wasn't a reality yet, but damn it if it one day others didn't have to suffer the same thing.

* * *

He was bedridden for months. The public was angry, the media was angry, Obadiah was angry, but at least with him it was carefully contained. Tony shut down weapon's production, tanked the company's stock, and put immediate emphasis on advancing other projects, like clean energy, medical and computer technology. He didn't make any public appearances, which probably added fuel to the frenzy of rumors and speculation, but he couldn't care less about what was being said. 

He considered the final surgeries after his return to be minor, despite Doctor Cho's insistence otherwise. 

He'd been in worse shape than he thought, lost more than he wanted, and as soon as the anesthetic from the first operation wore off, he was right back to work. Only the Doc was aware of his plans, and he was more than willing to be the guinea pig for his own invention. The final operations were meant to create the means to use cybernetic prostheses with synthesized artificial innervation.

Once he was back on his feet, _figuratively_ , he designed what would be functional, Jarvis fabricated it in the lab, and the new limbs were wired to his central nervous system within the week. With two hands once more, he made the necessary adjustments, and it was _almost_ like being whole again. The dexterity was off and the response was delayed, but he could fix that in time.

When it was all said and done, the first thing he did was stand.

Tony tested the his weight on the new legs, putting one foot forward, then the other. He could feel the pressure, and he hesitated, but it was too good a feeling to stop. He kept going, crossing the workshop and walking out into the hallway, past the elevator he'd been confined to using for months, and took the stairs one step up at a time. 

It took a few minutes, but he made it to the top and was greeted by the sight of his assistant glued to her laptop, working. He stood at the top of the stairs, breathing through the dull ache in his bones from the exertion, and grinned when Pepper looked up and gasped. Her eyes watered, and she pushed the computer to the side so she could stand.

"Come on," He said, when she couldn't find the words. "You didn't think I was just going to roll over and accept my fate, did you?"

"Of course not," she replied, finally. "I never know what you'll come up with next, Tony Stark."

* * *

He built the suit next, improving on the design that saved his life, and trying desperately to reclaim the freedom that he somehow didn't get back when the prostheses were finished. He still refused to make any public appearances, but when Pepper called him with concerns about his weapons being sold in Gulmira, he had to do _something_. With a fresh coat of paint, he flew across the world to confront the Ten Rings and end their reign of terror.

The demonstration and the following months put a lot of things in perspective for Tony Stark. His escape set many things into motion.

So after his death was reported to the world, _resulting from extensive injuries and complications following_ , he confronted Obadiah. Maybe the man knew he was in the suit, maybe he didn't. 

_That would have been immensely satisfying, though_.

The world believed Tony Stark was gone, but they saw the fight that spanned the city. SHIELD was willing to keep his secret, as long as he attended a press conference, under the guise of Iron Man, of course, and addressed the incident.

"Obadiah Stane," his voice, modulated by the helmet, said to the crowd of journalists, "Was responsible for illegal sales of Stark Industries weapons. His actions will not be covered up by the company, nor will they be kept secret from the public."

"Did Mister Stark know about this?" someone near the front asked.

"He didn't. I'm sure it would have continued without public knowledge had he not shut down weapon's production three months ago."

The crowd erupted with questions, and security tried to hush them while Tony waited.

"Who are you?" someone shouted.

...

"I am Tony Stark's final creation." A new man.

"I am Iron Man."


End file.
